


Private Enjoyment

by Kestrealbird



Category: Irish Mythology
Genre: Clothed Sex, Diarmuid's cum is basically honey I make these rules, Established Relationship, Fionn's giant cock makes a single cameo appearance, Hand Jobs, Lots of kissing, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, cute and fluffy, inhuman anatomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28454430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrealbird/pseuds/Kestrealbird
Summary: Fionn watches with lidded eyes, idly toying with a curl of Diarmuid’s hair. He’s in no real rush, content, for now, to let Diarmuid do all the work.“You,” Diarmuid hisses, “have far too many buckles.”
Relationships: Fionn mac Cumhaill/Diarmuid ua Duibhne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Private Enjoyment

**Author's Note:**

> The last thing I write in 2020 is mythos porn because this year fucked me so badly I decided to fuck back in defiance. I'm literally obssessed with these two and this was supposed to be about Diarmuid riding Fionn's giant dick to oblivion but that never happened so rip to all of us

Diarmuid ua Duibhne is made of blade-sharp edges, as lean and tall as his spears, skin as dark as wood. His eyes are a bright myriad of unnatural greens - the kind of greens one would normally only see on a canvas painting - the kind of greens used to depict towering, haunting forests. His leathers are a deep set of blue, his coat as dark as his hair, and he has no scent to speak of. His hands are covered by his gloves, always, and his hair is long; braided and patterned and adorned with pearls and diamonds.

Fionn mac Cumhaill, by comparison, is a giant of a man in all respects, who conducts himself with politeness and humility and kindness. His silver hair is styled with neat precision, not a strand out of place, and his beard trimmed to an acceptable, flattering length. It shows off the contours of his face - the line of his jaw. His clothes are bright and colourful, his hands calloused with labour. 

They make for a striking image. Two sides of the same gold coin, some would say, though Fionn himself would scoff at such remarks. They are not two sides of anything; rather, they are a poem of twenty verses, made up of exaggerated imagery somewhere around the fifth and absolute nonsense by the twelfth. Diarmuid rolls his eyes with barely hidden fondness. 

“It’s not an exaggeration,” Diarmuid says, voice as soft and gentle as it always is, never louder than a summer’s breeze, “if it’s true. You  _ have  _ levelled mountains before.”

Fionn pulls a face. “It wasn’t anything as grandiose as they make it out to be.”

“My apologies. I didn’t realize that a fight between giants no longer counted as a grand spectacle.”

“Not a full giant,” Fionn snips, because he’s not. He’s half of one, which makes him a giant by the standards of humans, and a particularly tall human by the standards of actual giants. 

“Half-blooded, full-blooded...it’s all the same when you destroy a mountain.”

“I didn’t destroy it. That would imply it doesn’t exist anymore, and it does, so I...merely trimmed it a little.”

Diarmuid stares at him for a long moment and says, “hm.”

It’s only been a few decades since the aforementioned fight, which is long enough for regular humans to embellish, but short enough for long-lived individuals like themselves that it may as well have only been last month. Time is an iffy concept when one can live for centuries upon centuries.

Fionn steeps his fingers and leans back in his seat with a scowl. He knows what that “hm” means; Diarmuid has a lot of different ‘hm’s, each one punctuated by inflection and length and the quirk of his mouth or the glint in his eye. This one means “you’re a stubborn fool and this debate is pointless so I’m refusing to comment further but I’m definitely the one whose right.”

And that is not an exaggerated translation. Diarmuid can say a lot with a look, and Fionn is, unsurprisingly, the only one capable of parsing them all. He supposes that’s what a lifetime of friendship does to you. “Hm,” Fionn repeats, with sarcastic intonation.

“Did you call me up here just to argue over poetry, or is there an actual  _ reason  _ I’ve been pulled from my holiday home.”

“You don’t have a holiday home.”

“How would you know? I don’t tell you how I spend our money.” 

Fionn smirks. “Precisely.  _ Our  _ money. To my knowledge you  _ do  _ still sleep with me, unless I should be worried about an affair.”

Diarmuid doesn’t answer at first. He drags out his silence just long enough that, if Fionn were not himself, he might’ve actually gotten concerned. Instead, he simply smiles, and Diarmuid, realizing that he will not, in fact, get a rise out of his husband, puffs up like an angry crow. He does so hate to lose these games.

“You could at least  _ pretend  _ to be scorned by my non-existent infidelity.”

“Oh I do apologize,” Fionn drawls, “had I known you wanted a scene, I would’ve bought you a theatre.”

Diarmuid cringes. He still doesn’t know how to handle a simple “I love you,” yet alone the way Fionn spoils his lovers. “Please don't,” he mutters. “It’s not like I’d ever use it.”

He can think of many ways that Diarmuid would, in fact, use it, because for all that he claims not to have an interest, he’s still Fae beneath it all, and takes a great amount of pleasure in watching human sport and entertainment. He finds humans to be endearing, in the same way that humans are endeared to their pets. It’s an uncomfortable thought for most; even Fionn, early on in their years, had found it unpleasant to think about. Nowadays, however, his reaction is one of fondness instead of unease - a testament of their time together.

“Well,” he starts, leaning back in his chair with a slow, salacious grin, “I can think of one way you’d enjoy yourself.” In the past, with other lovers, he’d always aimed to be more subtle - more seductive - with his intentions. Diarmuid much prefers he be upfront about it, in part because he enjoys how Fionn sounds when stripped of all nuance.

Diarmuid’s lip twitches into the shadow of a smile, eyes glinting in the low light of the lamps. The candle’s fire is consumed by shades of green, whisked away to a realm of promises and desire. “Is that what this is?” A rhetorical question, for they both know the answer. In one, smooth motion, he slides his hands up the arms of Fionn’s chair, leaning over him until they are but a hair's breadth away from each other, voice dropping to the low octave of a burrow. “A request for -” their lips brush - “ _ private _ enjoyment?”

“Mmm, would you hold it against me if it were?” 

‘No’ is the apparent answer, Diarmuid’s deft fingers pushing away Fionn’s coat and furs to get at the layers underneath. Diarmuid’s breath hitches, as it always does, the excitement palpable with his hurried movement. Even with so many layers, Fionn’s interest is obvious. It’s not something he’s particularly embarrassed about; he’s part giant, after all, and none of his lovers have ever complained about his performance. Diarmuid, in particular, makes it no secret how much he adores the size. 

Fionn watches with lidded eyes, idly toying with a curl of Diarmuid’s hair. He’s in no real rush, content, for now, to let Diarmuid do all the work.

“You,” Diarmuid hisses, “have far too many buckles.” Fionn makes no effort to help him, watching on in amusement as Diarmuid gets increasingly more frustrated with his layers, until, eventually, he gives up entirely and, in a move that surprises even Fionn himself, simply straddles Fionn’s lap and tilts his head up with claws under his chin. “Impossible,” he mutters, and presses their lips together as sweetly as he can, as though that will somehow lessen his eagerness.

This close, from this angle, Fionn can see every shade of green in his eyes; can paint the picture of a forest, a meadow, a wood of ferns and a garden of vines. 

The kiss starts innocently enough, nothing more than slow and unhurried movement, sweet as the scent of lavender essence, their sighs a mere whisper of a breath. One of Fionn’s hands settles on Diarmuid’s thigh, the other cupping his face, his thumb brushing the skin beneath his eye. 

His lover is made of blade-sharp edges, his lips as cold as a winter’s chill, but he is soft and pliant under Fionn’s hands, his pleasure a series of muffled moans, mouth parting for invitation. Whether by accident or instinct his hips shift against Fionn’s, startling a gasp from them both. He doesn’t wear nearly so many layers as Fionn does, and it’s immediately apparent just how much he likes their current position. 

Fionn huff’s, gripping his waist with just enough force to hold him in place without risk of bruising, and morphs his expression into one of such angelic innocence that even the Christian Church would absolve him of sin on sight. Diarmuid growls against his mouth. Whether he’s frustrated about the lack of movement or bruises, Fionn really cannot say. He’s not a soft lover by any means, and he makes this no more apparent than when he clamps his jaws onto the junction between Fionn’s neck and shoulder, long, thick canines piercing his flesh. 

Fionn groans, deep-throated, head thunking back against his chair. His hands dig into Diarmuid’s waist, and this time they  _ do  _ leave bruises in their wake judging by the shudder it elicits. “Bastard,” he gasps, and pulls Diarmuid’s hips down so suddenly - so roughly - against his own that Diarmuid makes a noise of shock, wrenching himself away from Fionn’s neck to stare down at him wildly, panting harshly. 

There’s the sound of footsteps outside his door. They’re playing a dangerous game, doing this here, when absolutely anyone could open the door and see them rutting against each other as if they were made for this and this alone. It’s almost surreal how much the thought of getting caught excites them; Diarmuid kisses him again, all teeth and tongue and blade-sharp edges, and Fionn returns his enthusiasm - lets Diarmuid set the pace for the kiss in return for Fionn setting the pace of their hips. 

Diarmuid’s pace is much rougher and faster than Fionn’s, not an ounce of polite restraint to be found. It drives him wild, his hips stuttering every time his lips get caught on sharp points, blood trickling down his chin and staining his beard. “We really should move somewhere else,” Fionn manages to say.

Diarmuid glares with the heat of the earth’s core. “I can’t wait that long, so finish what you started.” 

He wants to point out that Diarmuid is the one who made the first move, technically, and so he’s the one who started it, not Fionn, but he’s distracted when Diarmuid licks a path up his throat, teeth grazing against his skin; a threat and a promise all in one. He arches his neck to bare his throat for easier access and gets a pleased purr in response. He lets go of Diarmuid’s waist just long enough to unbutton his trousers, shifting the fabric open to get a clear shot at Diarmuid’s cock, hard and leaking.

His anatomy isn’t human in the slightest. This does little to bother Fionn, and he gathers the gold, honey-like liquid onto his fingers. Diarmuid shudders against him, shifts to try and open his legs farther, but only succeeds in getting them caught between Fionn’s thighs and the chair. This frustrates him and he finally removes himself from Fionn’s neck, casting a mournful look at all the marks he’d left behind. 

Possessive bastard, thinks Fionn, taking Diarmuid’s cock in hand to swipe his thumb against the curved tip. It fascinates him, how different Diarmuid’s body is compared to every other person he’s ever slept with. Even the colour of his cock is unusual - a gradient of black to bright, eye-catching green. He’s still finding new ways to describe the texture, and today he settles on comparing it to sequins. 

Diarmuid’s grip on his chair is one of iron, his breathing hitching with every delicate touch from Fionn’s fingers, and he watches Diarmuid breathe through every shiver, his curls falling into a mess over his face, coat slipping off his shoulders. Blood shines on his lips. He’s certain they both look a mess, but if Diarmuid walked out of the room right now, it’d be hard to tell if he’d been caught in the throes of passion or simply gotten himself into a fight. 

He’s just as rough with both. It’s his eyes that give him away, so it is, perhaps, a good thing that humans can never stand to stare at them for too long. 

Fionn is a generous lover, waiting patiently until Diarmuid calms down enough to settle his weight properly against Fionn’s legs, leaning back with a smirk, putting himself on display. He knows how much this affects Fionn - this false submission - this exhibit of trust. It gets the desired reaction, Fionn surging forward to devour his lover in a bruising kiss, tilting him further backwards, the only thing keeping Diarmuid seated in place the grip he still has on the chair. 

He whines into Fionn’s mouth, lets himself bend far enough back that it causes a twinge of discomfort. He grunts and Fionn’s other arm settles around his back, pinning him against that precipice. The grip on his cock is harsher than intended. Fionn doesn’t notice and Diarmuid thrills at that loss of control. He’s close already, not that it surprises him. His cock throbs, pulses, in Fionn’s hand, and the pace he chooses is one of torture, but he’s nice enough to let Diarmuid move his hips, the contrast between their respective paces pushing him closer and closer to the edge until he’s writhing from it, panting curses into Fionn’s mouth.

He’s never been one to plea or beg, so he doesn’t, but he nips Fionn’s bottom lip in a warning, and goes near-boneless with release. Fionn catches him, as he always does - as he always will - and rearranges his body to be more comfortably tucked against Fionn’s own. He’d wanted to see the mess he’d made of Fionn’s hand and clothes - had looked forward to seeing thick honey slipping down fair skin and soaking into bright furs, but Fionn is a bastard-and-a-half, tracing a rune into the air to clean them both.

Diarmuid grunts a complaint into his neck. There’s no real heat behind it. He settles into his lover’s arms, satisfied to just lay here for now. It’s not like anyone will know what they did if they walk in - not unless they look at all the bruises on Fionn’s neck and throat anyway. He presses his lips against one such mark, directly over Fionn’s pulse.

“Menace,” says Fionn, in the same tone that someone else might say ‘I love you.’


End file.
